


Learning to fight, learning to dance

by myrish_lace



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Salty Teens, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 14:46:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8537170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrish_lace/pseuds/myrish_lace
Summary: Lyanna Stark survives, and Jon and Aegon are half-brothers. Jon is in a hastily arranged marriage with Sansa Stark. They get on each other's nerves constantly during the day, but their nights are a different matter. This is my attempt at the "Salty Teens" Jonsa concept.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [riahchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riahchan/gifts).



> So I should probably call this salty-sweet teens, because I just can't write a ton of conflict between Jon and Sansa in the bedroom. :) Thanks to riahchan for the tumblr prompt. Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> I'm myrish-lace-love on tumblr if you want to say hi! :)

"You aren’t even trying, Jon!"

Sansa’s face was red. She’d yanked him out into the hallway after he’d stepped on her feet for the fourth time during their dance.

"Yes, I am!" Jon hissed. They'd practiced this reel for days. Sansa insisted on conducting lessons in her chambers because Jon "needed to learn how to take at least a few proper steps before others see us." Sansa was flawless, of course, and he felt like an oaf lumbering around with her in his arms. He’d never been good at dancing, but Sansa was as graceful at it as she was at singing, and embroidery, and every other bloody art women had perfected.

It didn’t help that holding her in his arms was distracting. Wildly distracting. He could smell her hair and feel the heat of her skin under his fingers and gods help him but he wanted to take her to the one place he did know how to move with her.

He couldn’t understand why their nights were so fluid, so easy, so inexplicably  _good_ , when they could barely talk to each other in the halls.

"What makes you think I’d improved? 'Impossible to teach,' wasn’t that what you called me yesterday?" She had, loud enough to be heard in the other room. "Why would you think I’d get better?"

She bit her lip. He hated it when she did that, it derailed him completely, made him forget everything around him, everything except his desire to kiss her.

“-when you fight.”

Jon blinked. I’m going to have to ask her to repeat herself and she’s going to hate it.

Sansa sighed. "You weren’t listening, were you? I don’t know why this is so hard for you, you move so well, when you fight.”

"Well this is different! I don’t have a sword in my hand, do I? You’re not in armor, are you?"

"Would it help if I was in armor? Because I’d wear some, Jon." She was glaring at him. The image of Sansa in fighting clothes flashed through his mind, and did little for him self-control.

"It might." Jon said through gritted teeth. 

"My Prince. My Lady Sansa." Ser Rodrik Cassel cleared his throat at the young couple glaring at each other in the hallway.

"Yes, Ser Cassell?" Sansa arched a delicate eyebrow at Jon.

"Your guests are concerned. It would be a great help..."

"If we returned to the dancing hall. Yes. I’m sure my husband will join me shortly." Sansa flounced out of the hallway.

Ser Allister coughed. "A high spirited lady, my lord."

Jon closed his eyes and nodded. When he returned Sansa was being spun around the floor by Theon Greyjoy. Theon was a lout, but he knew how to dance, and how to sing, and the women loved him for it.

Jon’s blood boiled as Sansa curtsied to Theon, the whole room erupting with applause. Now we’ll have to follow that act, he thought.

Aegon would have been better for her, Jon mused. Aegon had planned to marry Sansa Stark, until his half-brother changed his mind and started pursuing Margaery Tyrell. Jon hadn't known the specifics, only what his brother told him. The Starks were angry and expected a Targaryen marriage. "The Rose of Highgarden seems a prettier flower to pluck, Jon. You'll marry Sansa for me, won't you? You've both got Northern blood, you'll love Winterfell." Aegon had clapped him on the back and the matter had been settled. 

Jon hated to admit Aegon was partly right. He did like the cold and the quiet of Winterfell. It suited him better than the humidity and never-ending politics of King's Landing. Sansa was a different story. She was beautiful, and had a reputation for being a gentle-mannered lady. But Jon seemed to excel at irritating her. His table habits, his conversation skills - "you carry a conversation as well as a wingless raven, Jon," Sansa had snapped at him last week - his manner of dress. 

He tried. He truly tried. But social graces did not come easily for him.  Thankfully, sharing Sansa's bed did. She'd been skittish and uneasy the night they were wed, but Jon was patient, it was one of the few talents he had in greater abundance than Aegon, and he'd soothed her nerves. He told her they could wait, they didn't need to rush, that he'd respect whatever she chose. They didn't lie together that night, but soon she would coax him into the bedroom, breaking etiquette in order to leave a feast early. She started out hesitant, each time, but Jon didn't mind. He loved it when all the lady went out of her voice, when she was slick under his fingers and desperate for how he could make her feel. He needed their nights as much as she did, some reassurance that some part of their marriage was thriving and real.

***

Jon heard a muttered curse as he opened the door to his chambers. He was briefly on alert, until he recognized Sansa's voice.  

"-heavier than it looks. Oh. Hello Jon." Sansa sounded shy. Jon was dumbfounded. Sansa stood before him in a light chain mail shirt, it came down to her knees and left her arms bare. The firelight glinted off the metal links and he was fairly certain she wasn't wearing any smallclothes underneath. He wanted to scoop her up and kiss her, help her peel the dress off - 

"Jon. Close your mouth." He did, reflexively, and felt a hint of peevishness well inside him at her tone. "Where did you find that, Sansa?"

"You hardly pick up after yourself, it wasn't hard to steal." She lifted her chin. "You said wearing armor might help you learn to dance." 

"Are we fighting?" He drew her to him and kissed her, fiercely, he’d remembered the spot where she’d bit her lip all day. He pulled her to the bed and onto his lap. She was panting as he kissed her neck. “We’re dancing, Jon, _gods_ -“ 

“Not a good dancer, remember?” He slid his hands over her hips. 

“You could be. If you tried.” Sansa's hair was unbound and voice was low and warm.

"What do you want me to try?” She shivered as he whispered into her ear. He’d learned this early, that she needed to give herself permission to dare to do things, and he loved to give that to her, it was the only conversation they were good at having.

“Me – on top, Jon, please.” She undid his laces, and he rid himself of his pants and shoes. The chain mail was cold against his hands and he could only imagine how chilly it must be for her. "Aren't you freezing? Do you want help to take this off?" Sansa giggled.  "It is rather cold." He took the metal in his hands at the hem. The rings snagged in a few strands of her hair and she squeaked. Jon untangled her hair gently and laid the shirt aside. "I'm never going to be able to wear that chain mail without thinking about you," he muttered, laying the shirt aside. She looked at him, smiling mischievously. "The thought might have occurred to me." He smiled back and drew her to him again. Her skin was soft and warm under his hands and he helped her settle on to his lap, unable to keep himself from groaning. She found her own rhythm and he let her lead. He loved to watch her face, here, when they were alone together, as she started to move. Her neck was flushed and her eyes were shut and she started to whimper in the back of her throat, and this made up for all the ways he let her down, when she sniped at him about his posture or looked on with disapproval as he used the wrong soup spoon. Here at least, he got it right. Her hair fell like a curtain around her face and he could feel the tension in his legs, feel her straining to get somewhere. He reached down between them and stroked her. She gripped his shoulders as he told her how good she made him feel, how lovely she was, how sweet, that he wished he could do this every minute of the day. She whined, "Jon, I'm close-" 

He knew what she needed, and he murmured the words eagerly for her, struggling to control himself, he wanted her to get there first. "Yes, Sansa, please, sweet girl, let it go, come for me." She let out a harsh cry and that was his undoing, he pulsed inside of her, holding her as she rode out her release. She collapsed against his chest. He drifted, enjoying the weight of her against him.

Sansa pulled back and considered him. "Maybe we dance better when I lead, Jon."  He couldn't help it, he laughed, and she gave him a mock scowl and pushed him back onto the bed. "I'm not sure we can do this dance in front of others, Sansa." He was puzzled when some of her shyness returned. "I suppose - you might not think it becoming, Jon. A lady, wearing armor to bed. Did you mind?" She traced his hand down his chest. 

He wished he had the right words to convince her. A song, or a poem.  Aegon would have twelve at the ready.

"No," he said, pulling her down for a kiss. "I don't mind." Something in his tone must have comforted her, and she smiled. Tomorrow, they'd be back to fighting, bickering, he'd tiptoe around her feeling off-balance and out of place. Right now, though, they fit, they matched, and she seemed happy to be close to him. He would regret seeing the sunlight in the window in the morning. 

 

 


End file.
